


Charmed, I’m Sure

by phantomphan28



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Caretaking, Footnotes, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Hypnotism, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Slow Burn, Snake Charming
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-09-10
Packaged: 2020-04-12 12:59:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19132522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantomphan28/pseuds/phantomphan28
Summary: In which Crowley is more like a snake than he realized, and Aziraphale has to keep yet another Big Secret.





	1. The First Time, or, The Marrakech Incident

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for this post on the Good Omens Kink Meme: https://good-omens-kink.livejournal.com/1206.html?thread=75190#t75190
>
>> Crowley is very vulnerable to snake charming-esque hypnosis. Someone discovers this accidentally and decides to take advantage of it.

The first time had been an accident.

Aziraphale had gone to Marrakech towards the end of the eighteenth century to perform a few minor miracles for the Head Office, and had stopped at a delightful little shop for a spot of imported lokum and mint tea. He'd settled down for his afternoon treat when a chill of devilry swept up his spine, just before a cheerful crow came from a few rooms over.

"Heeey, angel!" A curtain parted, and Aziraphale spied a familiar red-headed demon sprawled across a multitude of colorful cushions. With an impish (if the pun could be forgiven) grin, Crowley beckoned him with a crook of his slender finger. "Come on in and join the party!"

With a small sigh, Aziraphale picked up his plate and politely requested that the tea be brought to the other room, as well as an additional cup, if the gentleman could be so kind. He then padded into the room and beheld the tableau before him. Crowley grinned as he came in, a huqqa stem idly perched in his fingers. "Hullo, there! Pull up a seat!"

"Crowley." Aziraphale replied warmly, as was his nature. He primly sat down on a cushion as the proprietor brought in his tea with a smile. "What brings you to Marrakech this time of year?"

"Oh, you know," Crowley drawled, taking a pull from the huqqa, "snagging some souls, enjoying the local amusements, that sort of thing." He offered the other stem to Aziraphale, who politely declined with a gesture. He shrugged, then slowly blew a cloud of fragrant smoke into the room, having enough decency to not do so directly into the angel's face. "You?"

"Ah, just a miracle or three, my dear." He poured some tea for himself and the demon, who took a sip with a teasing smirk. "Such a charming city, isn't it? Why, I've been here only half a day, and I absolutely adore it!" He took a bite of the lokum, then hummed in remembrance. "Oh, that's right! I bought the most interesting instrument while I was looking for some books. Here, have a look!"

He reached into his bag and withdrew a long reed flute with a bulb in the middle. He passed it over to Crowley, who looked it over with mild interest. "They call it a pungi! Humans come up with such funny names, don't they?" Crowley passed the instrument back with a small shrug and went back to the pipe.

Aziraphale turned the flute about in his fingers. "Now, the harp is more my style, of course—"

"Could you _be_ more of a cliché?" Crowley teased, smoke pouring out of his mouth and nose.

"Oh, hush!" he groused, whilst Crowley chuckled at his own joke. "And here I was, going to perform for you!"

"Well, don't let me stop you, angel! Do what you like!" Crowley reached over and swiped a piece of lokum from the plate.

He smiled in spite of himself and looked the pungi over. “Now, let’s see if I can get the hang of this...”

He raised the instrument to his lips and played a few test notes, before transitioning to an aimless, droning melody. He let the improvised tune lilt and swoop, and he gently swayed to make the music fill the room, like he’d seen the other musicians do. The shop goers didn’t seem to mind the impromptu concert; in fact, a passerby could have seen them tapping out the beat and bobbing along. Aziraphale paid no attention to any listeners outside, but neither did he pay attention to his companion, not at first.

Crowley ignored the discordant drone at first, preferring to continue smoking. As the song shifted however, he became drawn in by the tune, lowering the huqqa hose from his lips. The blinks behind his darkened spectacles slowed as Aziraphale continued to play, and soon he stopped blinking entirely. As the instrument swayed back and forth, Crowley swayed along with it, the visible parts of his face completely blank. The hose slipped from his lax fingers and clattered against the table, unnoticed.

The sharp clatter of the hose on the table brought Aziraphale up short. He looked up from the pungi and saw Crowley transfixed on him, lifeless as a stone statue. He set it down and leaned close to the demon, alarmed. “Crowley? Are you alright, dear?” When he didn’t respond, Aziraphale waved his hand in front of Crowley’s bespectacled face, then grasped his shoulders and gave him a little shake. “Crowley? Hello?” He patted Crowley’s cheek firmly, and he finally began to stir. “Crowley? Can you hear me?”

Crowley hummed hazily, then shook his head a bit, as if to clear the metaphorical cobwebs out. “What th’ heav’n izzin this stuff?” He slurred, giving the huqqa a sideways glance. He slipped off his spectacles and rubbed his eyes, though they had a soft, faraway look in them in spite of his efforts.

Aziraphale put the hose away and eased Crowley to his feet. “I think you should have a lie-down.” He draped Crowley’s arm over his shoulders and walked him out the door, the shop’s proprietor wishing them well as they left. “Where are you staying? I’ll take you home.”

Crowley gestured vaguely down a side street, and with another little miracle, Aziraphale got them to a fine home overlooking a lovely garden. Once they were inside, Crowley toddled over to a comfy-looking divan sitting in the afternoon sun and collapsed onto it. As he was settling down, Aziraphale reached out and plucked the spectacles off Crowley’s face and set them on a nearby table. “Rest well, my dear.” He murmured fondly. Crowley mumbled something incomprehensible in response and was sound asleep in moments. Aziraphale chuckled to himself and took his leave, pondering the whole affair.


	2. The Second Time, or, The Backroom Blitz

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An update? In **_this_** century? It's more likely than you think!

The second time was only a little deliberate, but with the best of intentions.

Crowley has just given Aziraphale a lift home after that disaster in the church. Really, he couldn't _believe_ how easily he'd been fooled! And wasn't Crowley wonderful, saving him and his books! He'd had to tamp down that little flutter in his chest that blossomed when their hands had touched, but that must have been from adrenaline[1]. They'd gone back to his shop, riding in unusual silence, until he'd noticed the limp in Crowley's stride as he held the shop door open for him.

"Oh, Crowley! You're hurt!"

Crowley idly glanced down at his foot. "Consecrated ground, angel. Remember?"

"Oh, but it's all my fault! You were only on consecrated ground to rescue me!"

"Shhhh!" Crowley hushed him frantically. "Keep it down! If my lot hear you..."

Aziraphale clamped his hands over his mouth. He _had_ forgotten! What a fool of an angel he was! "At least let me tend to your injuries, won't you?"

"Ah, angel, you don't have to—"

"Please? It's the least I can do after, well, you know..."

Crowley mulled it over, not quite convinced. Aziraphale tried another tack.

"I've got a claret that we could open."

 _That_ got Crowley's attention. "What year?"

"1913. I picked it up a week after that debacle in Paris."

"'Debacle'?! You kidding? That was amazing!"

"My dear boy, they were practically rioting![2]"

"Terrific fun!"

Aziraphale sighed, holding back a chuckle. "Oh, you're incorrigible!"

Crowley grinned. "Flattery will get you everywhere, angel. So, where's the wine?" He limped into the shop while Aziraphale locked the door.

"It's downstairs. Now, you sit down and rest your feet. I'll fetch it!"

He scurried down to the cellar before Crowley could argue. As he pulled the bottle out and returned to get some glasses, he couldn't help but think of poor, injured Crowley, putting on a brave face for him. He set the bottle down on the kitchen counter and pulled a large bowl out of the cupboards. He miracled some cold water into it and carried it into the sitting room, mindful of the books.

"That doesn't look like a wine bottle." Crowley quipped.

"It isn't." Aziraphale replied. "First things first. Shoes off."

Crowley rolled his eyes[3] but obeyed, knowing it was pointless to argue at this point. He pulled off his socks and shoes with a wince. Aziraphale took one look and winced as well. The soles of Crowley's feet looked terribly burned, and were most definitely swollen.

"Oh, you poor dear!"

"Don't start that!" Crowley snipped.

Aziraphale knelt down with the bowl and eased Crowley's feet into it. He winced again, but this time it was followed by a soft sigh of relief. "Better?"

Crowley nodded. "Much, thanks."

He stood back up and patted Crowley's shoulder lightly, then went to go fetch his drink. As he walked, he thought back to that night in Paris. The soft introduction of the bassoon had been unusual, but lovely, and had a strange effect on Crowley, who had swayed drowsily in his seat. Aziraphale had mostly managed to shake him awake by the time the other instruments had joined in, but he'd been hazy for the remainder of the overture.

At the time, it had brought back memories of their day in Marrakech. Aziraphale wondered even now if there were some kind of connection. He'd acted just as strange then. Perhaps...

Perhaps the effect could be replicated.The odd state he seemed to slip into might help with the pain. He didn't have that instrument anymore, but perhaps he could use the gramophone. Crowley had brought him one as a present and, in a rare instance of keeping with current technology, he'd used it frequently.

He took the wine and glasses back to the sitting room, handing one to Crowley and filling it.

"Ta, angel." Crowley purred, as Aziraphale filled his own glass and sat down.

"You're most welcome, dear boy." Aziraphale replied, mentally going through his small music collection. He had no pungi music, but he _did_ have a few of Stravinsky's. He took a fortifying sip of his wine and stood back up crossing the room. "You don't mind if I put on some music, do you?"

"Nah, go ahead." Crowley drawled, already pouring himself a refill of the wine.

A quick search revealed the disc in question, and he set it on the gramophone, keeping an eye on Crowley as he lowered the needle.

Crowley sipped at his second glass of wine as the sound of a clarinet filled the room. At first, he didn't seem to notice the music. Then, slowly but surely, his body started to grow slack in the chair. Aziraphale quickly took the glass from the demon's loose grip before it tumbled to the ground. Crowley made no objection.

He seemed to sway ever so gently as the music played on. Aziraphale reached out and took Crowley's sunglasses off his face and set them down. Crowley's eyes were glassy and blank, completely calm. Aziraphale waved a hand in front of them, as he had so many years ago, and Crowley didn't blink, as if he hadn't seen anything at all.

"Crowley?" Aziraphale whispered.

Crowley didn't respond. The only thing he seemed to hear with any clarity was the music, which he swayed in time with. Aziraphale tried to quell any panic. He'd expected this, hadn't he? Weren't snakes supposed to be attracted to this kind of sound?[4] He swallowed and leaned close to Crowley's ear.

"You... you should sleep, my dear. Aren't you tired?"

Crowley's eyelids fluttered almost instantly, and he yawned. Whatever Aziraphale was doing seemed to be working.

"Yes, of course you are. You're very tired. You should take a little nap. Just close your eyes now. That's it..."

Crowley's eyes closed, and within moments he was snoring softly.

Aziraphale took the opportunity to tuck a tartan blanket around the sleeping demon and settle down next to him with a book. He'd finish this chapter, then treat Crowley's injuries. For now though, he thought it best to let sleeping snakes lie.

"Sweetest dreams, Crowley." He whispered.

 

* * *

* * *

1 Or maybe hunger. He wasn't sure which.[return to text]

2 Despite later anecdotes to the contrary, there was no riot on the night of May 29 at the Théâtre des Champs-Élysées.[return to text]

3 Well, Aziraphale assumed he did; the sunglasses blocked all but his eyebrows.[return to text]

4 No. No, they are not. This is a myth. Unless the snake in question is Crowley.[return to text]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our ineffable duo are enjoying a 1913 Chateau Ausone in this chapter. The record Aziraphale played was [Three Pieces for Clarinet](https://youtu.be/nXUhWj52TCw) by Igor Stravinsky.
> 
> Next time: We're flashing forward 40 years for a new adventure. Hijinks will ensue.


End file.
